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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645535">I'm Telling You Now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/amythis/pseuds/amythis'>amythis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Laverne &amp; Shirley (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Other, pro-choice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:34:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/amythis/pseuds/amythis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Laverne explains a difficult decision she made in 1962.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I'm Telling You Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I was young but it's not like I was a teenager.  I was 24, which in our working-class Milwaukee neighborhood, where most of the girls I knew married straight out of high school, meant I was an old maid.  I accepted the first proposal I got, when I was 20, because I was afraid it would be the only one I'd ever get.  Then my best friend made me see that I shouldn't marry someone I wasn't in love with.  I thought about Shirley's advice when I had my first pregnancy scare a few months later, and I turned down a proposal from the sweetest guy I knew, because he wasn't the father and I didn't love him the way a wife should.</p><p>The "father" turned out to be a guy I just drunkenly necked with and didn't actually go all the way with, according to the obstetrician I saw a few weeks later because I'd missed my period.  I never saw my non-existent future baby's "father" ever again.</p><p>The situation was different three years and a few months later.  I was deeply in love with a fireman, Randy Carpenter, although he wasn't my first lover.  (That was a guy named Moose, who I thought I was in love with at the time.)  I thought we were going to get married.  In fact, Shirley told me that Randy told her and her boyfriend Carmine that he was going to propose.  And he did say he had something important to ask me.</p><p>But he never showed up.  I waited and waited for him, even after people told me he'd died in a fire.  I couldn't believe in his death until I cried on my widowed father's shoulder.  I couldn't accept it for a much longer time.</p><p>I spent the next few weeks in a daze, still going to work, trying to lead a normal life, going through the motions.  When my period was late, I didn't pay much attention.  It could've been stress and grief messing with my cycle.  And then the morning sickness started.</p><p>Shirley was in the waiting room when I left the doctor's office, just like the time before, but everything else had changed.  "Vernie?" she said as she stood up.  I shook my head and she understood that I didn't want to talk until we got home.  She drove, as she had on the way over.  I definitely couldn't focus on the road.</p><p>We got back to our basement apartment and I sank onto the couch.</p><p>She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of my favorite drink, milk &amp; Pepsi.  "I hope this is all right with whatever nutritional advice you got from the doctor."</p><p>I shook my head and crumpled the instructions the obstetrician gave me, along with the spoken words, "It will all work out, I'm sure, Miss DeFazio."</p><p>She came over, set the glass on the coffee table, and picked up the crumpled paper from the floor.  "Laverne," she gently scolded, "even if he gave you a lot of advice you're not crazy about, like giving up beer, you need to think about your health, and the baby's."  I hadn't even told her I was definitely pregnant, but she must've known that I would've told her right off if I weren't, like last time.</p><p>"I don't want a baby," I said quietly.</p><p>She sat down next to me and smoothed out the sheet of paper.  "I know you're scared and feeling alone, but I'll help you through this, I swear."</p><p>I shook my head again and said more loudly, "I don't want to have this baby."</p><p>She stared at me and said, "You don't know what you're saying."</p><p>"Yeah, I do.  I can't be a mother right now."</p><p>"Laverne, I realize it's different than if you had Randy."  I winced at his name, but she continued on.  "But he would want you to keep his child."</p><p>"Like some sort of souvenir?  I don't need a baby to remind me of him."</p><p>"No, that's not what I mean.  But, well, he wanted to marry you and have children with you."</p><p>"It doesn't matter what he wanted because he's not around.  And, Shirl, I appreciate you offering to help, but I'm a mess right now and I can barely take care of myself."</p><p>"But, Vernie, to get an...."</p><p>She couldn't even say the word, and neither could I, not yet.  "I know," I joked, because I always joked, even in the darkest times, "I'll have to stop going to Confession."</p><p>She didn't laugh of course.  She said, "Is this what you really want?"</p><p>I nodded and swallowed.  "Yeah.  I mean, not that I'm looking forward to it, but I just can't see doing anything else."</p><p>"What about adoption?"</p><p>"I thought about that, but I don't think I could stand knowing that a kid of mine, and Randy's, was out there somewhere.  I'm sorry if that sounds selfish."</p><p>"No, I understand.  If you really want to go through with this...."</p><p>"I do," I said, making myself wince, because I should've been saying those words to Randy right about then.</p><p>"In that case, let me talk to Carmine."</p><p>"What are you, crazy?"</p><p>"Last time, when we thought you were in trouble, he hinted that he knew how you could, well, get rid of it.  And you know it's illegal in Wisconsin.  In most places."</p><p>I nodded.  I'd thought of that before, but in '58 I probably would've given the baby away.  "OK, you can tell him, but no one else.  Especially not...."</p><p>I knew she understood that I particularly meant my old-fashioned Italian Catholic father, and a young Polish Catholic man who had an old-fashioned streak of his own.  Years later, Lenny Kosnowski would talk me out of living with my boyfriend of the time, in part saying that if I was in love I should get married and have kids.</p><p>And I knew if he found out about my "condition," his immediate impulse would be to try to marry me and give my baby "a last name," a stepfather's name.  It would be harder to say no this time, because we'd become closer in the past few years and I knew he believed he was in love with me, while I didn't love him, except as a friend.</p><p>I was a mess from losing Randy and the promise of my life with him.  I couldn't think about a new life with Randy's baby and maybe Lenny as my replacement husband.  I just wanted to keep my old life, working at Shotz Brewery, living with Shirley.  I didn't want any more change.  But even preventing change can change you.</p><p>We told everyone but Carmine that we were going to Chicago for a few days for a friend's wedding.  Lenny and his best friend Squiggy wanted to apartment-sit for us because our place was bigger and nicer than theirs.  We said OK, as long as they slept in the living room, while Carmine would sleep in our bedroom and keep an eye on them.  We'd hear about the hijinks, including sleep-walking, when we got back.  And we'd lie about the wedding and say that the pictures didn't come out.</p><p>And we'd sell our car to pay for the procedure, telling my pop that the insurance and gas and repairs were getting to be too much.  And we'd never tell anyone what I went through, not even my wise, understanding stepmother.</p><p>Carmine still never directly refers to his assistance, although sometimes when he used to tease me about being "easy," I would wonder if this was part of it.  He's an Italian Catholic, too, but I doubt he ever confessed to helping a friend get an abortion.</p><p>The procedure was safe and my body healed.  My mind, and I guess my soul, have scars, but I don't regret it.  Yeah, I still think about "Randy Jr.," calculate how old he (or she) would be, but I also know that I was not ready to have a baby then, or for years after.</p><p>Even when I had my babies in my thirties, it was hard.  Motherhood is really hard.  But I think Lenny was right when he told me I was meant to be a mother, just not back in '62.</p><p>My firstborn is fifteen now and she'll start out sentences with "Mom, I'm not a feminist, but...."  Like, she'll ask me why a boy who has sex is a "stud" but a girl is a "slut."  I hope by the time she has a teenage daughter, that won't be a question anymore.</p><p>She's in love with her boyfriend, so these aren't just hypothetical questions anymore.  I'm going to take her to the gynecologist tomorrow, even though Tommy has promised to use condoms.  Condoms break sometimes, and I don't want my baby to have to decide about babies just yet.</p><p>I'm going to talk to her father tonight.  I know he'll cry and hug me tight and ask, "Why didn't you tell me back then?"</p><p>And I'll say, "I'm telling you now."</p>
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